Poetry of a Pond

The Sullen Wake to Flowers

Poetry of a Pond

by Leila Rousseau
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When I don't want to write, I read
When I don't care to read, I sleep
When I am not writing and not sleeping, I am listening to the stories
When I am not reading and not sleeping, I am recreating the stories
Yet, when I am not dreaming and not floating, I am not awake.
I am only existing until I write, read or sleep.

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Never starting a fresh, but moving to breathe the new air.
Never turning for a new leaf, but replacing the stylus
What do I become when I change my habitat? Never settled. Always making my escape.

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Strides, side by side. In love, together.
One turns back to re-step for a different future.
The other wades through emptiness, and reclaims life in the name of his old love.
So important to smile, and give way to pedestrians.

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Every pen, every powerful pen.
Every weak pen. Engrave not your name or your destiny, but your past in neat time.
Scribble not your troubles, or your fears, but your cravings and discoveries.
Tiresome is the talk of static, the fatigued and the woe some. Inspiring is the talk of moving reflections in glass, in water and in time.

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Anything could be a surprise. The shock may kill or devastate.
The innocent may wonder.
The experienced may plan or ignore. The shaken may never thing again.
Everybody could be homeless.
How do I remind myself I am lucky, every breath and every sleep?

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If there was ever a time to escape, it would be given to me now, as a jet.
Now I am jumped through to a void, a holding yard of distressed but fortunate women.
Heavens, don't open up to this one, let the ocean take care of her.
With her gut, she wail stand to avoid the wave of soft glass, and stand aside the twirling winds that wrap around all those under suspicion.

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These righteous men travel in the Trojan of love and admiration.
The play cart puled by a mother, later, a carriage heaved along gravel and mud by horses.
Strength carries, weakness breaks.Youthful king, spiteful louse.
A tear in the bosom of the nurturer.

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This stylus is fine, it tells a truth that pours over questioned days.
Rhetoric has come to virtue, as light has come to vision.

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A passage short, is a thought mistaken.
A road so long, is a while when taken.
Think so quick and walk so far.
To find the troubles, here they are.

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I miss my cat. I miss him jumping about.
I miss him annoying me. I miss him being annoyed.
I miss his fluffy cuddles. I miss him running through the house, bringing in a cloud of dirt and dust.
I wished he would walk on my back and get comfortable on the nape of my neck.
I miss lifting him up to show him the sky and the ceiling.
I miss choosing his food.
I miss him being fascinated by his funny tail.
I miss him running frantically, up and down trees.
I miss him waiting for me suspiciously.
I miss him complaining all the time. Meow Roaw.

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Pondering my whereabouts, I will be asked by many - why did you do that?
I will have to answer, first with denial, then with a smile.

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Days in Paris are not glamourous.
I am not in action, I am out.
I must stay 'til at least Spring is over.
Meanwhile, I hate Paris before les Printemps.

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A head full of cliches, is a tower full of junk.
Please, hope it is drained, so a paragraph may start the story.
Give the noise to the public, so the still quiet gaze can rest, and discover a bare night, and fill it with particular people and props.
The reader wants art.
Cliche is not art, nor is it wit.
Wait, until they have cleared the tower.

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That vision could not be drawn
onto the face of the unborn
Whether he white or he black
he will not know until he go.

Tremblin so as he follow
his brothers into the night
He don't fight
til he use his might.

Step by step his feet meet the beat
Go, go, go, don't see your foe.

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The Present, a Souvenir of the Past

I'm going to take over the world
after I have taken over your attitude.
I'm going to think like you and talk like you,
after I colour my hair and paint my nails,
I'll look like you.

I'm going to walk down the street
in very high heels, and I'm going to fight off
every barren whistler and chatting gypsy.
I'm going to run my life like you run your business.

Every coffee I drink with myself will be important.
Every piece of ravioli will be counted.
Every step I take will be fast,
and every mouthful of water will be fresh.

I'm going to use you like you use me,
after I take over your attitude.
I'm going to call you like you call me,
and not at all if you put me down.

I'm going to buy you a present,
after I go shopping for myself,
and you can take it as a souvenir of how nice I was.
Because I'm going to take over the world,
after I have taken over your attitude,
and you won't get to know me when I do.

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Baby bump, we go on holidays
Find our paradise in the sun
Don't look at him, he's writing stories
He'll take one of yours and tell me.

Baby bump, we stay here in the shade
Why we brown in Summer?
Don't open your eyes, they see the world
And the world will be on holidays.

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Isn't it traversing cold steps on a wintery day?

The day you say no to an addiction
Ridding your body of this enslavement
comb your disgusting hair, an effort you think is progression.

The night you turn off your phone to stop the calls to your dead soul
Ridding your head of the entrapment
Make your bed, a chore you wouldn't ever have had to do.

If you didn't choose to go out in this weather.

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Hurrying to the counter, before you go missing.
Not a person on this earth will believe you are alive if you have not checked in.

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My Love as a Cloud over Paris

Distance of clouds, how long until they meet again.
To us they are forms of the same mass, the same purpose, the same life.
If they whisper close does it mean they will never part,
or will they long for the words repeated, all around the world.
Some formations are broken, by jets and a hurricane,
Some live fast, with the wind and in the desert
Some live slow, in the valleys and with the snow.
Some rise again, as the mist over icy grasses,
Some fall forever after a storm in Paris.


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